Hell's Fury
by Wilusa
Summary: A guess at the significance of a key dream sequence.


  
  
DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.  
  
**_Note:_** Like any speculative Carnivale fiction written now, this story may be rendered AU by canon established in a future season.  
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"Are you sure this can't hurt our children?"  
  
Hack Scudder winced. He'd hoped to avoid that question. But he met the other man's gaze and said honestly, "No, I'm not. I can't guarantee anything at this point."  
  
The frown on the Russian's face deepened. He made a move to push his chair back from the table. But Hack reached across it and grabbed his wrist. "Listen to me! The one thing I am sure of is that both our sons are in danger now. Do you want to leave them at the Enemy's mercy without even trying to help them?"  
  
The Russian pulled away from him, and walked over to the curtained window. Hack forced himself to sit still, giving the man the time and space he needed.  
  
_Not that there's much space to give_, he thought wryly. Hack had been hiding out in the small-town Templar Lodge for nearly a week, living in an upper room while the clueless locals disported themselves below. By now the walls were closing in on him. But the Russian had joined him just that day, after flying to the U.S. in response to his urgent wire.  
  
Turning, the newcomer said with a hint of bitterness, "Things wouldn't be coming to a head this soon if you'd gotten your son out of harm's way before the carnival could pick him up. We've known for years that the Enemy owns that carnival."  
  
"I know," Hack admitted wearily. "Ben escaped from a chain gang recently--long story--and I didn't expect him to go back to his mother's farm. She'd never given him cause to love her. Your children got more affection from that minister Balthus, who isn't even kin." He realized he sounded bitter too. "Anyway, Ben went home because his mother was dying. That shows what a good young man he is. The Enemy had learned where Flora lived by then. But if I'd gone after Ben, and shown up while Flora was still alive, she probably would have convinced him I'm a servant of the devil."  
  
"I suppose you're right," the other man acknowledged. "I understand that you had to desert them years ago to protect them, and you couldn't risk telling her the truth. So your son has grown up to be a 'good young man'...but he may not stay good now that he's in the Enemy's clutches."   
  
"That's about the size of it."  
  
"I--I realize I owe you, Henry--"  
  
"No! I am _not_ calling in some kind of _debt!_" After all the years that had passed, Hack still hated being reminded of what he'd done for the Russian. _Healing a man who'd lost both legs and an arm. Healing him completely...at what cost to the other patients in that field hospital?_ _Ten died that night. I've told myself they were all so badly wounded that they would have died anyway. But I don't know that.   
  
_He'd performed the healing late at night, while the Russian was in a drugged sleep. Then he'd revived him, and spirited the dazed man out of the hospital under cover of darkness. Fortunately, the vanished patient had still been listed as "unidentified." And amid the continuing horrors of war, the mystery of his disappearance had soon been forgotten.  
  
"You don't owe me anything," Hack said now. "I healed you partly because you're a fellow Templar, but mostly because you'd saved _me_ by distracting that blasted bear. And"--a thought he found consoling--"it led to my learning things I needed to know about your family. So perhaps it was part of God's plan.  
  
"I'm not asking you to do this because you 'owe me.' I know you love your Alexei as much as I do Ben, and Carnivale's snaring Ben has put them _both_ in more immediate danger."  
  
The Russian came back, slowly, and perched on the edge of his chair. "I see that. But, Henry, I'm not sure I can do what you want. I'm not like you. You're the opposite number of the Enemy!"  
  
"I know your rank in the Order," Hack said quietly. "I know the occult skills you've mastered. You're not like me, no. But you have more in common with me than with the bumpkins dozing over their card games downstairs. Can you tell me you never reach out to touch your son Alexei's mind--to check on how he's doing?"  
  
The man actually blushed. "All right...I do. But I never try to give him information or let him sense my presence."  
  
"I'm sure you can do it," Hack said, with more conviction than he felt. "Tell me, was he old enough when he last saw you to remember you? To know what you look like?" _If he wasn't, we have a major problem on our hands._  
  
"Yes, I think so. He used to sit on my lap, play with the buttons on my uniform--"   
  
Hack seized on that. "Your uniform! Of course--that's something a child would remember. When we do this, you have to imagine yourself in uniform. Keep that picture of yourself in your mind, and that's how he'll see you."  
  
"All right," the man said meekly. "What about Ben? Does he know you?"  
  
Hack grimaced. "I've appeared to him in dreams, but I'm not sure he realizes I'm his father." He couldn't have entered and influenced those dreams if they weren't kin; he certainly couldn't shape _Alexei's_ dreams. But Ben had no way of knowing that.   
  
"I have a plan for letting him know," he continued, "but I haven't been able to pull it off yet. It depends on the rousties playing a trick on him that they always do with new hires." He sighed. "But I don't want to postpone the plan for tonight." _And risk not keeping you on board._ "Ben has at least seen me before. If I tell him, 'I'm your father,' he'll probably believe me. He'll get the proof soon enough."  
  
The Russian stood again. "If you say so. We'll have to wait till well after midnight, won't we? Late enough to assure that Alexei will be asleep, out in California?"   
  
Hack thought grimly, _He looks nervous enough to spend the whole time pacing the floor._  
  
"That's right," he said. "In fact, I think it will be best to wait till dawn--dawn on the Coast--so when they wake up they'll _stay_ awake, and keep thinking about what just happened. But will you please sit down? There's something I'd like you to do now."  
  
Sighing, the Russian dropped into his chair. "What?"  
  
"We need a locale for this shared dream. Ideally, a location one of our sons will visit for the first time within a day or so. Seeing it in reality will reinforce his belief that the nighttime experience was no ordinary dream.  
  
"Obviously, it can't work for both of them, since they're thousands of miles apart. And Ben isn't going to be anywhere but at Carnivale. He knows it well by now. So I hope you'll be able to identify a place that will work for Alexei."  
  
"H-how?"  
  
"Stay calm," Hack told him. "Approach this slowly. Touch Alexei's mind the way you have before. His being awake won't cause a problem--I don't want you to _read_ his mind. Just touch it, then slide forward along his timeline."  
  
After several false starts, the Russian identified a diner where Alexei and his sister Irina would have a meal with Reverend Balthus. "Alexei hasn't seen it before," he said, sounding pleasantly surprised at his own confidence. "I'm sure."  
  
Hack smiled. "That's good. Now you'll have to describe it well enough that I can see it too."  
  
An hour later they both knew that diner intimately. While their physical bodies remained in their chairs, their astral counterparts could slip in and out of a replica of the diner at will. A phonograph played the song Alexei would hear the next day, "Love Me or Leave Me." The fortysomething waitress, a neat but unglamorous blonde, said what Hack wanted her to say. And each man could make the other see him in his attire of choice: the Russian in his military uniform, Hack in the Gentleman Geek's tuxedo and top hat.  
  
Finally satisfied, Hack said, "All right. We're ready. Now I'd advise you to get some sleep."  
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"Let's review the plan," Hack said as they settled themselves at the table again. "One more time."  
  
The Russian nodded. "Good idea. We get our sons into the diner--let's see, you said we should create a dream landscape where the lighted diner is the most obvious place for them to go?"  
  
"Yes. We mustn't move them around like chess pieces." Hack shuddered at the thought. "It's okay to give them only one attractive choice, but not to force them to go where we want. And we should get them inside one at a time, not give them the option of avoiding each other before they go in."  
  
"You expect them to sit at the counter."  
  
"Probably. There's no predicting with certainty how someone will behave in a dream. But they'll probably do what two solitary men of different ages would do in real life: both sit at the counter, and ignore each other.  
  
"And that will be good for us," Hack continued, "because we'll be able to sit at the table they can see clearly in that mirror behind the counter. If they want, they'll be able to watch us for a few minutes without turning around and staring."  
  
"Should we walk in together?" the Russian asked. "You hadn't decided that before."  
  
"Hmm. Separately, I think. That will be easier to do, in what will be very like a 'shared dream' for us, too. We shouldn't have any trouble coordinating our movements once we're sitting together. Maybe you should go in first."  
  
"Why? What difference does it make who goes first?"  
  
"None, in the long run," Hack acknowledged. "But you'll get their attention right away because they'll both recognize you. Alexei should know you're his father, and I've let Ben see you in dreams. Alexei has never seen me."  
  
Mentally, he added the qualifier _I hope_.  
  
"He'll recognize me," the Russian fretted, "but God knows what lies he's been told about me!"  
  
Hack sighed. "I'll have problems with Ben, too. He must feel I've been tormenting him in his dreams--he probably hates me, and things will only get worse when I tell him I'm the father who deserted him. I'm just hoping that by the time we're through, he'll understand."  
  
The Russian was still uncomfortable. "I don't want to go in first. If one of them should challenge me immediately, I'd rather not be alone."  
  
"All right, I'll go first," Hack assured him. "But I'm guessing they'll watch us for a bit, size us up. We should sit down and wait for a few minutes to see if one of them will approach us. Our quietly drinking a toast together might be a good idea--we need to show them we're allies. Then, if they don't approach us, we'll have to approach them."  
  
He took a deep breath. "Ultimately, our goal is to have a heart-to-heart talk with them, and convince them that we're their fathers. That we love our children, and always have. That the two of us are working together against the Enemy, Carnivale's 'Management'..._and that they can and should work together, too._"  
  
"Amen," the Russian whispered.  
  
"All right," Hack said crisply, "let's go for it. Clasp hands, so we'll keep our focus."  
  
They did--and the Russian promptly gave a nervous giggle. "Sorry, but it feels like we're having a two-man seance!"  
  
Hack chuckled, grateful for the release of tension. "Would you prefer not clasping hands? It's not essential."  
  
"No," his friend said with a smile, "I'm all right with it. I just needed a few seconds to get used to the idea."  
  
"Okay." Hack quieted his mind, then reached out carefully to find his son. "Ben's having a natural dream. That will only last a minute or so, but you may as well go ahead and try Alexei."  
  
"Checking him now." After a few seconds, the Russian reported, "Not dreaming." He knit his brow in concentration, then said softly, "Got him. He's walking into the diner..."  
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The cassock-clad man who had once answered to the name Alexei--but now thought of himself as Justin Crowe, Methodist minister--entered the diner and sat at the counter, to the opening strains of "Love Me or Leave Me."  
  
The waitress, with commendable realism, tossed aside a flimsy book she'd seemingly been reading, and deposited her cigarette in an ashtray. She laid a menu in front of Justin and poured him a cup of coffee.  
  
Ben Hawkins entered and sat to Justin's left, leaving an empty stool between them. The waitress poured for him as well. The men studiously ignored each other--and just as studiously ignored their menus.  
  
Hack Scudder entered, wearing his tuxedo and top hat. The phonograph was still playing, but the utter silence of waitress and customers struck Hack as a bit eerie. He removed the top hat and collapsed it with a loud _crack!_  
  
No one jumped.  
  
Implausibly, the table at which he seated himself was already set for two--and both plates were laden with food. The wine glasses were empty, but the waitress came over and filled them both with red wine while Hack was still sitting there alone. He was too tense to be amused.  
  
The Russian arrived and joined him, resplendent in his dress uniform.  
  
By now both their sons were watching them in the mirror. Only Ben sneaked a better look over his shoulder. Hack wondered what that implied about the respective characters of Ben and Alexei, but didn't reach any conclusion.  
  
The waitress said portentously, "Every prophet in his house."  
  
_Families, "houses" united here,_ Hack thought. _Of course, that's not quite the whole story._..  
  
He and the Russian officer raised their glasses in a toast, clinked them together--  
  
And he felt a stunning blast of air, accompanied by the impact of hundreds of stinging shards of glass. Then came the sound, a near-deafening explosion that somehow left him able to hear the windows shatter.  
  
As he sank into unconsciousness, Hack Scudder was mentally screaming, _Ben!_  
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He woke to hear his companion _really_ screaming, "Alexei! _Alexei!_"  
  
Hack opened his eyes and sat up, forcing himself to ignore the pain, the blood, and the broken glass--all of which seemed unpleasantly real.  
  
He took a quick look around, and discovered he and the Russian were--of course--still in the upper room of the Templar Lodge. The window was shattered; all the furniture was overturned, some of it smashed. He and his friend were cut and bleeding, but his injuries clearly weren't serious: they hadn't triggered his reflexive self-healing. As for the wailing Russian, he was only agitated because he was afraid for his son.  
  
_As I am for mine..._  
  
But by the time he'd scrambled over to the other man, Hack's questing mind had already determined that Ben was waking from his "nightmare," shaken but unharmed.  
  
He grabbed the Russian and held him. "Calm down!" he urged. "You can't check on Alexei till you calm yourself. He's almost certainly all right--I've confirmed that Ben is. You just have to calm down, and then you'll be able to find out for sure."  
  
That did the trick. After a few gulping sobs, the Russian was steady enough to send out a mental probe for Alexei. Then, smiling through his tears, he reported, "He's all right too. Woke up, safe and sound, in his own bed."  
  
"That's good." Hack carefully removed a glass shard from his friend's scalp. He decided that for the sake of the Russian's nerves, he should heal his cuts, minor though they were--and while he was about it, heal his own as well. He could always choose to do that, however trivial the injury.  
  
"Hold still," he ordered. A minute later they were both healed.   
  
The Russian watched in confusion as Hack wiped blood off his unmarked face. "You...you...my God. What have you done? Where did you get the life-force?"  
  
Hack was in too somber a mood to laugh, but he managed a grin. "I don't think you realize how minor our injuries were. Healing them may have shortened the lives of a few of the Lodge's mice, but I don't think our brothers will mind."  
  
"Oh." The Russian produced a sheepish smile of his own. Then his face fell, and he said, "I suppose _that_ was the Enemy..."  
  
"Definitely." Dead serious now, Hack couldn't suppress a shudder.   
  
"And...we shouldn't risk trying again?"  
  
Hack's fists clenched in frustration, but he spat out, "No way." Reluctantly, he elaborated on that. "It turned out to be much too dangerous. Our children weren't harmed this time, but we might not be so lucky again. I don't think the Enemy would hurt Alexei deliberately--but accidents can happen."  
  
He took a deep, steadying breath, and made himself go on. "I'm sorry, my friend. I should have admitted this before. I had thought of the possibility that the Enemy might already be monitoring Alexei's dreams."  
  
_"Monitoring"...and more. **Shaping** his dreams, perhaps, as I have Ben's. Giving him information Lodz has picked up **from** Ben. I hope that's not happening, but I know it could be._   
  
The Russian gave an embarrassed shake of the head. "No need to apologize. I'd thought of it too, and didn't mention it to you.   
  
"There's another issue we have to address, Henry." He looked Hack in the eye and spoke sorrowfully, but with dignity. "You've always been too polite to remind me of the blunder I made years ago. But we both know who the Enemy is. We both know I brought all this grief on us and on the Templars, unleashed all this evil on the world, when I made the damn-fool mistake of _marrying_ her!"  
  
After he'd gotten the words out, his eyes filled with tears. He brushed them away with a savage swipe of his sleeve.  
  
Hack righted one of the overturned chairs and eased his friend down into it. "No, no! You mustn't blame yourself! It wasn't your fault. If you hadn't fathered Plemina's children, someone else would have."  
  
"She wouldn't have been able to spy on that someone, and learn all the secrets of the Templars!"  
  
Hack shook his head. "I remember what you've told me--how young she seemed, how innocent, how adoring. I don't think you can be faulted for not having seen through her. If it wasn't you, it would have been another Templar, or someone else with as much occult knowledge."  
  
The man said stubbornly, "You're just trying to make me feel better."  
  
Hack sighed. "And you're determined not to?"   
  
Later, he'd tell himself it was weariness that had made him blurt out what he said next: "Then at least you should be beating up on yourself for the right reason."  
  
"Uh...what?"  
  
"Creature of Light" or not, Hack cursed under his breath. _Having gone this far, I may as well be honest. _"We've all made mistakes," he said kindly. "I've made enough for a half-dozen lifetimes, so I'd advise you not to agonize over yours.   
  
"But you did make one bad mistake with Plemina. It wasn't marrying her and fathering her children. It was letting her know you'd found her out, and meant to divorce her! _That_ was what drove her to run off with the children, take them to America, and fake her own death--causing us to lose track of all of them, for decades." It wasn't until Alexei and his sister were adults that their father had been able to establish mental links.  
  
The Russian swallowed hard. "Oh. I...never thought of that. It never occurred to me to try to dissemble, and stay married to her!" He looked almost ill.  
  
"It may work out for the best," Hack said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. "There may be hope for the children. They could hardly have had a better caregiver than Reverend Balthus. Who knows? It may all be part of God's plan."  
  
_Can God's plan extend to Plemina's getting her claws into Ben?  
  
_A stray thought crossed his mind, bringing a bitter half-smile.  
  
The Russian noticed, and said, "What?"  
  
Hack shrugged dismissively. "Nothing much. I just remembered an old saying. 'Hell hath no fury...' And it occurred to me that in this case, Hell really _does_ have a fury like..._a woman scorned_."  
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(The End) 


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